


All I want for Christmas Is You

by 221b_hound



Series: The Gladstone Variations (AU of Guitar Man) [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, John used to be in a band, M/M, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a practical necessity, that's all. No fuss. No big deal. Just for the paperwork, to make difficult times a little easier. They chose Christmas Eve for the deed so it would pass under the radar. And yet Sherlock and John find themselves more than a little sentimental to see the rings on their fingers. Also, a bit horny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I want for Christmas Is You

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Mariah Carey song, but I much prefer the version by Jessica Mauboy.

“John, this is absurd.”

“I know it’s absurd. Hold still.”

“You’re just going to take it off again in two minutes.”

“With my teeth, yeah.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he wasn’t fooling anybody in this room: anybodies which consisted of himself and his new husband.

“It was a _practical_ measure, John.”

“And you’re as romantic as a chunk of plaster. I know. Shut up, or I’m going to peel the back off this red rosette and stick it on your pubes.”

Sherlock stared down at John tying the red ribbon around his naked waist into a bow. John appeared oblivious to the fact that he was huffing warm breath over Sherlock’s bare crotch. Normally Sherlock could tell whether John was doing that sort of thing on purpose, but really, John seemed very single minded about the tying of the damned thing. In fact, John glanced up briefly, with the grin he always wore when about to spout a terrible pun, and said: “Tying the knot again. Haha.”

Sherlock tried to be disapproving, but his very firm erection had other ideas, and he decided in any case that he certainly did not want the pain and hassle of removing a sticky-backed decorative rosette from his pubic hairs. There was no doubt John would do as he threatened if Sherlock was in any way scathing.

He had to literally bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying something that would end in tears.

“All right,” he conceded, with an effort, “But when you’re done I need you to stop and listen to me.”

John finished tying the bow and then stood back to survey the glory of his work. It was a terrible bow, wonky and too long. His immediate look of triumph then morphed into an expression of acute embarrassment, indicating he realised what an idiot he was being.

“Look, Sherlock, I…”

“John.”

“I know I’m being horribly sentimental. I’m… look… I’ll take it off.”

Sherlock’s hand shot out and seized John by the wrist. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“I…”

“John, I know I am lacking in mawkish sentimentality, but that does not mean I have no appreciation for the moment.” He released John’s hand and picked up the abandoned rosette. “A little expression of fond regard is not beyond me, you know.” 

“Fond regard?” John was not impressed.

“I would say besotted adoration, but we both know I don’t say that sort of thing.”

That cheered John up immensely.

Sherlock smiled. “You now. Undress. It’s time for bed.”

John blinked and stared at his ribbon-bedecked new husband, and Sherlock did indeed look absurd, but also delicious, all that pale skin set off against the scarlet ribbon and the huge, floppy bow. That erection (long and contrastingly stiff) was also far from unappealing.

John took off his shirt and threw it to the far side of the bed. His trousers and pants soon followed.

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him, oddly chaste under the circumstances, and then took a moment to assess the familiar, adored landscape in front of him. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, and John closed them.

John heard the backing peeled away from the rosette, and a moment later he felt it pressed to the left side of his chest, over his heart.

The thing about the boys of Baker Street was that they never did make a truly public declaration. But that is not to say they didn't marry. They are practical men and they knew that in their line if work, bad things could happen. As they looked out for each other in their work, they soon realised that being married would be a practical way if dealing with at least some of the bad things that might come their way and make them, if not good, then easier.

They’d kept it a secret, not wanting a broo-ha-ha about it all. They’d been together for five years already, so it wasn’t as if it changed anything in the daily sense. The decision was based on practicalities and everyone around them was busy with seasonal demands, anyway. So Collared had played carols for the Met at the Yard’s morning tea, John and Sherlock had gone to the registry office to have the minimum legal ceremony and sign the forms, then they’d come home to send out some invoices, answer a few email queries and assure their last client that payment after the holidays would be fine.

So far the only two of their circle who knew about the marriage were Mrs Hudson and Mike Stamford, who had acted as their legally required witnesses. Sherlock had grabbed the pair of them straight after the concert and told them what was going on as they were dragged registry-wards. Sherlock would have gladly picked up strangers from the street for the task, but accepted John’s argument that Mrs Hudson might never speak to them again if they did that. The rest would find out at the New Year’s Eve party. Or they would, Sherlock said, if they had the sense to notice the rings they’d be wearing.

The deed took half an hour. Simple vows, plain gold bands exchanged, signatures affixed to documents, and it was official. The four of them had champagne afterwards at the nearest pub, Sherlock telling Mike and Mrs Hudson not to make a bloody fuss, John agreeing but grinning like a lovestruck fool the entire time. Sherlock might have commented, but he was too aware of the gold band around his finger, the one glinting on John’s, and he too often caught a matching grin trying to steal over his own features.

Ludicrous, of course. The point was legal, not romantic.

Two hours after the ceremony, they were back home, back to life as usual. And it really wasn’t any different to the morning, except for that odd, unexpected pressure around the ring finger of the left hand. They’d already discussed that they wouldn’t wear the rings all the time, only for social situations. There were times when rings would interfere with the Work, after all.

When he got home, Sherlock slipped his ring off to wash his hands, considered leaving it by the bed, but when he picked it up, it was on his finger again before he reached the bedroom door. He’d decided to leave it there, for now at least.

When they’d gone to bed for the night John had played with the band around his own finger, obviously reluctant to remove it. He’d looked across as Sherlock had stripped, no doubt seeing how the light from the bedside lamp glinted on the gold, had suddenly taken it into his head that he wanted to dress Sherlock in a red bow.

And now Sherlock had affixed a festive rosette to John’s chest. Each had trimmed the other as a gift.

“You’re right, this is absurd,” said John, staring at the rosette, deeply embarrassed.

“It is. So what?”

John blinked at him.

“The ceremony,” Sherlock said, “Was always a formality, more for the convenience of the thing. Bureaucrats do so love their paperwork, and I won’t be kept from you when you need me because of the lack. But I am at your side from now until death, John, as always. A ceremony does not make that _more_ true than it already was.”

John’s smile slowly returned. He reached out to run his fingers over Sherlock’s face. “At your side. Forever. I’m yours, you’re mine. As always.”

A simple ceremony it had been, and for practical reasons, but that didn’t mean it wasn't intense, wasn't meaningful. 

Sherlock captured John’s hand and kissed his fingers. “Nevertheless,” he said. He lipped the ring on John’s left hand.

“Nevertheless,” echoed John. His smile became crooked. “It was a nice ceremony. You looked fantastic.”

“I wanted to steal you away from Stamford’s idiotic speech and have my way with you in the cloak room,” Sherlock confessed.

“You should have said so.”

Sherlock laughed. “You would have let me?”

“Today I might have. Today, I might have got you out of your trousers first.  Something about the words ‘you may now kiss your husband’ went straight to my libido. Seriously. I mean, I thought my heart would beat right out of my chest I was so happy, but I also got a hard-on you wouldn’t believe.”

Then he gasped, because Sherlock stroked the hard-on in question. “My husband,” Sherlock said. He stroked John again, and kissed him. “My. Husband,” he murmured against John’s mouth. “Mine.”

John’s reply was muffled against Sherlock’s mouth, but he in turn reached out to stroke Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock thrust into the warm grip and gasped.

“Husband,” whispered John into his ear, “You’re my husband, Sherlock Holmes. Best Christmas present ever.” He tucked fingers into the ribbon around Sherlock’s waist and tugged him closer. “You are the best thing, ever.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and helped himself to twin handfuls of John’s excellent arse. He pulled John’s groin close against his own, their erections pressed together, hot and increasingly slick, and moved his hips in small, sweet circles. They kissed, softly, then open-mouthed, tongues and lips and panting breaths.

Sherlock bent his head to kiss-nibble John’s jaw, his throat, ignoring the rosette, squashed between them. John laughed breathily.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas,” he began to sing, “There is just one thing I need…”

Sherlock kissed John’s collarbone, and nipples. John gasped hard and then sang again.

“I don’t care about the presents underneath the Christmas tree.”

Sherlock sucked on the soft skin of John’s belly, then swept his tongue into John’s navel, faintly salty with the day’s perspiration.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know,” John swept his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, over and over, delighting in the softness, the coil of dark curls around his fingers, “Make my wish come true, all I want for Christmas is you.”

Sherlock blew a raspberry against John’s belly, and John was reduced to giggles as he tried to wriggle away and Sherlock held him tight.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop singing!” he laughed.

“Don’t you ever,” said Sherlock earnestly, pressing his face to John’s stomach and hugging him, “Sing to me always, John.  Never stop singing. No-one ever sang for me before. No-one ever loved me like that.” He kissed John’s belly, over and over, in between the sudden words that spilled from his tongue, unplanned but not unwelcome. John, breathless in wonder, combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he listened. “Your music kept me going, John, it kept me sane and it led me home. You sing with me and I am never alone. You must never stop.” 

“I won’t, Crumpet. I’ll be singing for you the rest of my life.”

“Honey.” Sherlock placed a final, wet kiss on John’s stomach. “Though,” he said after reflection, and he regained control of his vocal cords, “Perhaps not that one.”

John, who had been on the verge of choking up, laughed. “Not a fan of Mariah Carey, huh?”

“Oh, John. It’s not that.” Kneeling at his husband’s feet, Sherlock looked up at John and grinned, a little wickedly. “Don’t you know? Consulting detectives are not just for Christmas.”

“Of course not,” agreed John, hands playing with Sherlock’s hair, his face, his shoulders, “They’re for life.”

“Army doctors, too,” said Sherlock.

“Even the battered ones,” laughed John.

“Those are the best kind.” And with that, Sherlock slipped his mouth over John’s cock and sucked. John groaned and bucked and muttered imprecations until he came, loudly and enthusiastically, in his husband’s mouth.

A short while later, John did indeed unwrap the bow from Sherlock’s waist, using his teeth, and reciprocated with a memorable blow job of his own.

First thing on Christmas morning, when John was in the bathroom, cursing and trying to get the rosette off his chest without ripping out any more chest hair, Sherlock played the Wexford Carol on the violin by way of apology for the indignity.

And then they had Christmas Honeymoon Sex until Boxing Day.

And neither man confessed that they knew perfectly well beforehand that they hadn't really needed to get married for reasons of bureaucroacy and paperwork and legal spousal rights.

Not until the first anniversay, anyway. Then they laughed at each other for a sentimental dolt, and had a lot of Christmas Anniversary Sex.


End file.
